


Telling Sam

by marlowe78



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean being mean on purpose, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are meant to hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling Sam

**Author's Note:**

> _Random rambling and a/n_
> 
> _I wrote this just after 05x02, because I needed some big blow-out between the brothers. There was so much potential for anger and pain between them and I needed some scene about the first seal, about breaking it. For me, it wasn't certain that Sam knew about it - and if he didn't, why would Dean not tell him, not stand by him during the verbal punches Bobby threw him._
> 
> _Don't get me wrong, I did feel sorry for Sam, still do. But the only reason that Dean would accept Sam to be cut off that old friendship was that he believed Sam deserves it. And I still - even after half of season 5 - think he kind of does think so.  
>  Dean is no angel, no demon, no saint. He is human, and humans feel pain and anger, even towards those they love. Especially towards those they love if they feel betrayed by them._
> 
> _And in my opinion, Dean does feel that exactly. And since it is petty to be miffed about some personal crap like being lied to, being left alone when you need some comfort, when the End of Days is close... yeah, I can totally see Dean being an ass wanting to hurt Sam back, just as much._
> 
> _I wish there had been something similar on the show then._   
> 

„Whatcha want here?“

That growl certainly wasn’t what Sam had expected. He'd been sure Dean would be happy to see him – considering he had just exterminated the spirit that had been throwing him repeatedly against a wall. Now they were both panting from the exercise, each with a wary look on the face.

It'd been some time since they'd seen each other; the last visual contact for Sam was a look over his shoulder when the pick-up had taken him away from the picnic-area where Dean had just offered him the Impala. Where Dean had given up on Sam without a fight. At least that’s what it had felt like. Didn’t really matter that Sam would have gone anyway, it had hurt like a kick in the jewels.

“I don’t know – a 'thank you' might be a good start, though.” Sam held out his hand to help his brother up, but Dean just ignored it and pushed himself from the floor, suppressing a groan when he straightened his back. The crack of the vertebrae could've been imagination. Or not.

“Thank you, then. Satisfied? Now go away.” The angry hiss was definitely real.

“What?”

“Are you deaf all of a sudden? I said ‘go away’.” Sam stared. Sure, Dean had a lot of practice in wall-hitting, but it never occurred to Sam that his brother would enjoy it. He hadn’t seemed particularly happy with his position on the ground, so it must be something else. Sam dug his feet in.

“I don’t wanna go. I’ll stay – I want to help.” Help with ghosts, with wendigos, with the end of days – no, with _preventing_ the end of days. Help _him_.

“You can’t help. Now fuck off.” Dean was dusting off his jeans, collecting the shovel, lighter and whatever else was littered across the floor. When Sam bent down and picked up the shotgun-shells that'd dropped from his brother’s pocket and reached out to give them to Dean, Dean shoved Sam's hand away so the shells scattered all over the place again.

“What’s wrong with you? What the hell crawled up your ass? You need all the help you can get – and you should be…” He stopped himself, but not fast enough for Dean to miss the slip of tongue and pounce on it

“What? I should be what, Sam? Grateful? I should kiss your feet because you decided to _assist_ me in this matter – whatever this matter is? Is that it? Cause in that case you came for nothing – I don’t kiss feet. Or ass, come to that.”

Sam stared some more. Unbelievable. His brother had finally lost his marbles, probably during the head-banging against the wooden wall. He resisted – barely – the urge to look for them in between the shotgun-shells.

“Dean…”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me!” Dean spat. “I don’t need your help. Now leave and get on with your perfect life. Shoo, there’s a good boy.” And he actually, unbelievably waved Sam in the direction of the door of the old barn, where the ghost of a very unhappy farmer had wrecked havoc for the last twenty years. Killing animals, of all things. Such an important hunt to die for. Dean waved Sam away like he would shoo a wayward chicken – and Sam was beyond pissed.

“Are you nuts? You don’t need help?” he threw his hands up, angrily punching the air when he crossed the distance between them “You need every fucking bit of help you can get, you arrogant bastard! Just because you’re this special vessel now? Because you’re this magnificent _weapon_ all of a sudden – now you don’t need help anymore? This, this… that… I can’t…” the hands slapped the side of his thighs and Sam welcomed the sting for it told him he wasn’t in some bizarre dream, was actually seeing his brother after eight weeks of separation. He’d never thought he would miss his annoying, self-righteous, smart-ass, obnoxious and sometimes stupid older brother so much. He'd liked his life as a waiter, had liked the girl – what was her name? But still, he’d missed Dean. Maybe it'd been wrong to believe Dean would miss him too…

“Yeah, right!” Dean snorted. His voice was acid-bitter and had Sam not been so pissed, he might have noticed the slight hint of wariness and pain that flittered across the blown pupils. “I’m special, I can handle things alone. Now go – before I smite your ass!”

Dean pushed Sam’s shoulder but Sam didn’t budge. He jostled him again, harder this time, the intent obvious and Sam had enough. He'd come to make up, do over. Not to get in a fist-fight.

“No! I’m not leaving.” He yelled back “You can push me all you want, but I messed this up – I unleashed the apocalypse and now I need to help set it right.”

“You didn’t.” Dean screamed, barely contained disgust and fury in his voice and in his eyes. “You didn’t unleash the apocalypse. See? Not your doing – now go the Hell _away!_ ” Dean was beyond pushing, was in a fighter's stance, prepared for more. There was murder in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Sam however was dumbfounded, had lost the anger. He stared at the man in front of him, not understanding and not really sure he knew him anymore. Dean looked… cold. And hot and fiery at once. Hard. Not like the thousand times before, when he'd kept his feelings inside, hiding them underneath something else. This time, he looked as if he’d never had any feelings in the first place. None at all. “What do you mean? I mean… I saw … I know you saw me freeing Lucifer. I did that – no one else. So what do you… NO! Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” Confusion'd switched to anger in the split second it had taken for Dean to twist on his heel. “Look me in the eyes, you ass and tell me the FUCK what you mean!”

Sam grabbed Dean at the shoulder, hard, and tried to turn him back around but before he could finish his move, Dean had twisted out of his grasp, taken three steps away and looked at him. Met Sam’s gaze directly with… nothing. Cold emptiness in shaded eyes and had the iris been black as tar, Sam wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

And then Dean shattered his world.

“Fine, Sam. You wanna hear it? Huh? You sure? Okay: You broke the last seal. That much is true. But hey… guess who broke the first!” and he pointed both thumps at himself in the mocking, oh-so-familiar manner he always had when trying to ridicule serious situations. Combined with the dead gaze, it was the creepiest thing Sam had ever seen. He stared back – seriously, this was going to be the day his eyes fell out of their sockets.

“What? How? When?” He would've wished for more coherence, but in the end, those three words were what he needed to know anyway.

“ _’And it is written – the first seal shall break when the righteous-_ ” here Dean scoffed “ _\- man sheds blood in Hell_ ’ See? I did that. I broke the first seal – I started it. Now go.”

Dean turned and continued to assemble his weapons, Sam being ignored and dismissed.

“Excuse me?” He wasn’t going to be treated like… like…like a dog that had chewed the best pair of boots. “You … you let me believe that I am solely responsible for starting the end of the world?”

“Yep.” the single sound from Dean’s back hurt more than anything Sam ever heard before, even more than Dad telling him to never come back.

“You…you let… you let Bobby chew me a new one, standing by and saying nothing, just … just … I can’t believe that! That's…”

“Bobby was possessed.”

“And did you fucking know that?”

Cold incredulity was replaced by vicious anger, blown away by the fierce burn of Sam’s fury. And still Dean didn’t bother to look at him, didn’t acknowledge his presence. Sam snapped. Like a whirlwind he was on the his brother, grabbed his shirt and pushed him bodily across the room, against the wall.

“You fucking hypocrite! You tell me, grill me about guilt and let me wallow in self-pity and shame while you sit by and let me feel miserable – and you knew, you _knew_ that I wasn’t the only one to blame? I know you probably had no choice in breaking, but you damn well had a choice in telling me about it! So why – why the fuck didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me? Why… why?”

He was burning hot and hard and he was right, he had every right to be mad. Sam was a good hunter, a strong fighter. He was big – no, huge – and he had skill and grace and power. He was all hard muscle and strong sinews but there was one trait that had always been his weak spot, from the first time he sparred with his brother up to the fatal night in Maryland. Rage was his weakness. And rage he did. So he missed the flicker of panic when he had his brother pinned, when he grabbed Dean’s wrists to prevent him from breaking the hold he had on him. He missed it and when he wasn’t blinded by his fury anymore, it was gone and Dean just hissed.

“Let go. Let me. The fuck. Go! Now Sam!”

“No. No I won’t!” He shook him, not caring if the sweaty-haired head would hit the wall. “Tell me why and I might… I might consider it. But no – I wanna hear your excuse, your reason” his voice was acid “for betraying me like that. For making me feel like that on purpose. So tell me!” he pushed Dean again, his face just inches from his brother’s, his powerful hands wrapped around the wrists.

He never saw the headbutt coming and it nearly broke his nose when Dean’s forehead hit. Blood spurted from his nostrils, hot and wet and disgusting, mixed with mucus and tears of blinding-white pain. Because of the short distance between them, it wasn’t as heavy a knock as it could have been, but the pain was a bright star, more blinding than Lucifer rising. Hot, cold, hard and excruciating and he couldn’t see. Tears spilled from his eyes and over his cheeks and everything blurred for a second. Only a second, because John Winchester had trained his sons well. But a second was more than enough for Dean to break free and reverse the situation.

“Because I wanted to!” he yelled, pushing Sam, giving in to all his anger, his fury and wrath. And now it was Sam against the wall, Sam who felt the hot breath in his face, the forearm across his throat. “Because I wanted you to feel miserable and guilty and shitty. I wanted to hurt you, to punish you. To feel like shit, like the shittiest piece of shit ever! To make you miserable and… and… and to hurt you!” His fist was raised, ready to strike. Through his blurry vision Sam could see it poised and he saw the effort it took to keep it there, to stop it from meeting his face, from smashing his teeth. There was wrath in his brothers eyes, cold anger and the desire to cause pain. He had seen a look like that, but never aimed at him. Never. Now though… now he could imagine the unimaginable. Now he could actually see Dean in front of a torture-rack, opening flesh, cutting, ripping and breaking soul after soul. Not even the black emptiness in the eyes of the possessed held as much horror as his brother’s blazing green eyes held right now.

“Dean…”

“SHUT UP!"

It was so fast, even if Sam would have deemed his brother, his friend and protector throughout all his life, capable of hurting him, even then he wouldn’t have been able to move away. In the split second it took for the fist to reach his face, his cheekbone or his jaw, Sam braced for the pain he knew was inevitable. He heard the terrible crunch of the impact and for another split second he wondered how long it would take his brain to recognize the pain, or if he would just drop unconscious instantly. Or dead. But nothing happened and when his brain caught up he knew that the fist had met the wall instead, just inches from his left ear.

“That’s what you wanted to hear, right?” Deans voice had lost the volume, was just a sharp hiss whispered in his ear, so close that Sam felt the spit at his skin, smell the stale breath of too much coffee and not enough food. The burning fury was gone, replaced by cold indifference. Dean pushed himself away from the Sam's shoulders.

“Now you know. So fuck off. You have no business with me.”

Sam swiped at his face to get rid of the spittle, stunned. He opened his mouth to say something – anything.

“Fuck off!"

And he did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He left through the barn-door through which he had entered earlier, still stunned and numb. Shocked from being lied to – again. Shocked from being betrayed – for the first time. Shocked from seeing his brother – for the first time ever – as a threat, as something other than his friend. As something other than Dean. Had Dean felt like that when he left him in midst a shattered hotel-room to go off with Ruby? But he couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t see straight. Everything was wrong somehow, twisted and contorted.

He stumbled across the empty field towards his 'borrowed' car, still reeling from the fact that everything he'd ever taken for real, for granted – for safe - had been nothing but a lie. A beautiful web of lies. His foot caught in a branch of bramble and he stopped to disentangle his jeans when he heard it.

A loud crack, a thump and a yell filled with so much anguish and pain and loneliness that he first took a look around, certain he'd heard a wolf. But of course it wasn’t a wolf.

Sam turned around and his gaze fell on the barn behind him, dark and oppressive in the moonlight, the Impala a deeper shade of black in front. He saw the flicker of the fire in which the ghostly farmer roasted and that was all he saw. And he didn’t hear any more.

‘I walked away from hunting’ he thought. ‘I wanted out, always wanted out. I left, have been leaving all my life. He wanted me to leave. And I did. I should go.’ But instead, as if his feet had their own mind, had their own idea about right and wrong, he twisted around fully and walked back. He couldn’t tell why – would never in his life be able to say why. But he had to go back. His legs picked up speed, not a run yet but more than a walk.

When Sam was close he slowed and listened. He heard a low ‘thumpthump’ that he couldn’t at once place, though it was familiar. Before he crossed the threshold, he peered inside, cautious as always in the face of a possible threat.

His brother, the picture of fury and anger and raw power from before, was on his knees, face to the wall, back towards the door. The noise came from him: he was hitting his fist against the rough brick-wall, again and again and again. Not hard, but again and again and again. Sam suddenly remembered the sharp crack when that fist didn’t hit him but the barn instead and the memory of the crack made his stomach drop.

It must have hurt.

His feet took over again, seemed to be smarter than his brain. Every nerve-ending shoved him closer, he couldn’t escape his instinctive reaction to seeing his family in pain. Before he even knew it, he was kneeling next to Dean, gently touching his shoulder. He expected a fight, a shove or a push. But nothing. As the only concession to Sam’s presence, Dean stilled completely. Sam carefully took the bloody right hand in his own and inspected the damage, slightly surprised at the ease with which Dean allowed him to do so.

“Fuck off, Sam” but it was a whisper, a small voice from a scared child. Not even close to the spiteful, angry screaming from just minutes ago. Like a wildfire after it had run its course, Dean had burned and crashed.

“Shhh, let me look.” He didn’t say anything just yet – didn’t know what. Instead, he pried the fingers loose, unbent them from the rigid clench they had been in. He felt the shudder shoot through his brother’s arm when the pain hit, but no sound crossed his lips.

“Shhhhhshhsh.” Carefully, Sam straightened the hand, turned it over and placed it on his bent thigh, wiggling his butt to reach the clean handkerchief his family was known to never leave the house – or car – without. Very gently he cleaned the blood from the knuckles, spotting dirt and debris in the wounds.

“You don’t do anything by half, do you?” The only response was a short hitch of breath, perhaps the beginning of a chuckle but impaired by pain. Without the blood, Sam could asses the damage better. He whistled silently through his teeth.

“Wow. That needs a cast.” Another hitch of breath, and this time he looked up and tried to see his brother's face. Couldn’t, though – Dean’s head was turned away.

“Dean?”

“Just leave, Sam.” The voice still held nothing. No anger and not much of any emotion whatsoever. It was rough, sounded foreign, like the voice of a stranger. Not like Dean at all, certainly not powerful. There it was again, the hitch. But… not. Sam frowned, tried to catch a glimpse of Dean’s eyes. His brother, his strong, capable, powerful and very dangerous brother was sniffing. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the adams-apple bounce in the tell-tale way of someone crying and trying desperately not to.

“Dean? What the hell..? Does it hurt that bad?” A short laugh, more painful than happy.

“No, it’s ok. Just… just go.”

“I think I’ve established that I won’t do that. Not just yet”

“Why?” He nearly didn’t hear that, it was so low.

“What, ‘why’? I need a reason?”

“I … I lied to you. Didn’t tell ya. Did… wanted…”

“Yeah. You’re a dick. But that doesn’t mean I'll let you sit here, smashing your hand. Dude, you might need it again.”

Dean scoffed at that. At least some reaction. “Just… Damn. Just leave, Sammy. I can’t… I…”

“No, asshead. You nearly pushed me through the wall, the least you can endure now is letting me witness your breakdown.”

“No breakdown. ” It was whispered, followed by a sharp intake of air when Sam accidentally brushed across the hand too hard.

“Sorry. No breakdown? Huh. Coulda fooled me. Come on – spill it.”

“What’s the point?” Dean still didn’t meet his eyes, but at least he'd turned his head a little towards Sam.

“What do you mean? The point is…It’s…" Sam frowned "I don’t know what the point is supposed to be, but… Well, there is a point in caring about your family – messed up as it is.”

Now Dean chuckled, and Sam should have been happy about it, but he just couldn’t. It was an ugly sound. Sharp and spiteful. “Yeah… No. Not what I mean. What’s the point in spilling the beans, telling my inner feelings, my oh-so bleeding heart? I mean – I’ll do what I’m supposed to do, or die trying. Just let me sit here and wallow in self-pity, ok? Just… leave me with at least that much… uh, too late for pride, I guess. But maybe … appearance? Let me at least pretend.”

“No, Dean. Come on – what happened? You were all hell-bent -” he winced at the bad choice of words “ - on saving the world, righting the wrong. Putting Lucifer back in his cage. What’s changed?” Sam never stopped dabbing the wound, not trying to catch Dean’s eyes again and giving his brother some respite at least to collect himself.

“Changed? Nothing has changed, Sam. I’ll still do that. And that’s … “

“That’s what? That’s all? Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah. Has to be, right? Enough, I mean.”

Sam shook his head, looked up. “I hate to say this, I really do, but Dean… Man, I don’t get it. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you care about what happens? About what happens to you? Aren’t you scared?”

But Dean still didn’t look at him, his head turned slightly to the left. He swallowed, raised his head a little but instead of looking at Sam, he now inspected the wall in front of him.

“Hell, Sam. I’m… I’m freaking scared off my pants. I just.. It’s just… I mean – why should I care about me?” Sam was speechless and he sagged a little onto his heels. He’d thought Dean to be beyond his low self-esteem-issues, though now that he thought about it he couldn’t really see any reason for him to be. There hadn’t been a lot to boost his spirit in the last two years…

“You should care. You just… you just should.”

“It’s not that easy, ya know? I mean – honestly? Who gives a fuck anyway?” He finally met Sam’s gaze and the … the… the nothingness, loneliness, fear and infinite sadness in there took his breath away. Dean looked shattered. Worse even than he had looked after his big confession about his time in Hell. He was… splintered in tiny little pieces of glass and soul and Sam couldn’t help but feel a bit of resentment towards himself, even though he didn’t want to. It was supposed to help, dammit, to talk about your fears, feelings and sins. That Dean wasn’t magically healed after telling Sam about his deepest sins, his most horrible memories… that had been a setback. His brother hadn’t come back the same man, lost something in the pit. And he was still not whole – and Sam was still trying to get used to the new model. He concentrated on the broken hand again.

“It’s not easy to give a fuck when there doesn’t seem to be a point, you know? I mean – you said it yourself. I’m a freaking sword. I’m supposed to be a vessel, a… a shell. For a freaking angel. Fuck – I don’t want that. I… I might destroy the world if I don’t agree to that, but… I…Sam.”

The younger man looked up again, saw Dean blink furiously, trying to get the tears back into his scull from where they had treacherously escaped. He viciously wiped them away with his left sleeve.

“Is that all I am? All I ever .. all I‘m supposed to be? Not even a person? All I am good for is a fucking shell? Not even… there is nothing that anyone’s interested in that is me? I mean... angels want my… skin. Want me hollowed out and use me. Made me torture again, even up here. Didn’t give a fuck about what I wanted. About my soul, apparently. Everyone wants to use me. Fuck me. Chicks wanna fuck me – which I don’t mind that much. Men wanna fuck me – I’m not blind. Hell, according to the internet, even you want to fuck me. Demons wanna mess with my soul – whoopy, at least someone has good use for that piece of crap. Shit Sam. Talk about low self- esteem. Dammit.” Dean swallowed, looked at the ceiling to gain some composure again. Unexpectedly, he snapped his fingers and met Sam’s gaze. “I get it. I do – now. I finally get why you were so scared and angry and … and whatever you were when you found out…heard about Azazel’s – Lilith’s… whatever’s plans for you. I tried to get it earlier, I just… I just couldn’t. But now I do. I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t really see, couldn’t understand. Just… sorry.”

Sam blinked. He’d never thought about it that way. All he'd heard when Zacharia told them about the… the vessel-thing was that Dean was special. That he'd been chosen for a higher purpose, for something good where Sam was meant to be bad. He'd seen it as an honor. He'd been glad for Dean, a little envious even. He had thought that now, when finally someone told Dean that he was worth something, someone other than Sam, someone he might believe – that this would boost his brother’s psyche, bring back his spirit. Even though he sure didn’t mind Dean refusing the offer to be an angel-wrapper, Sam had been sure it was a good thing, an honorable thing. Typical that his brother couldn’t see it that way.

“Well. Maybe that’s not all that much comfort but I do give a damn about you. You-you. Your soul. I always have. And I sure don’t wanna fuck you. Bobby gives a damn about you, Ellen apparently. I’m pretty certain none of them wants to hop into the hay with you – I’m not so sure about Jo, though. You… Did I tell you that I’m proud of you?” He looked up “Huh, guess not. Well, I am. For not backing down. For fighting those feather-freaks. For… for being you. I’m proud to be your brother, I should have told you last year. I didn’t and that’s really unforgivable. I am. Proud, I mean. Dean.” He waited until his brother met his gaze. “I’m proud of you.” Then he continued his ministrations of the split knuckles, forestalling the embarrassment Dean would feel after that much honesty.

“Oh, by the way” Sam spoke to the cloth in his hand “- you must be something special. Dude, Castiel fell for you, deserted from his brothers. Honestly?” He looked up again and crooked a smile “I think he might have a little crush on ya.” That finally got an honest laugh. Short though it was, it was still a relief to hear it.

“Great. I’ll add him to the list.” Dean swallowed. “Sam, I … I’m sorry. For not tellin’. For…for being an ass – again. I… I’m really, really freaked. About everything, these days, about what happens if fail. But.. Shit, I guess we have a curse on us. Everyone who gives a shit is either dead, damaged or…well. Dead. I don’t know if I can do that. This. Be… whatever. I just don’t think I can win this.”

Sam took a while to look around. He tried to picture them in the barn. What a strange sight they'd make: kneeling in the dirty old straw littered around on the ground, Dean’s hand cradled in his own. They were closer to each other than they had been in years, not counting the times one of them was dead. The last time he remembered staying so long at such a short distance – inside each other’s personal space – had been when he was fifteen and had had what he had believed to be the worst night in his life: Dad in hospital, Dean still upright and talking but bloodied from his own, Dad’s and the monster's blood – and on top of that, his very first girlfriend had told him he was a freak and she never wanted to see him again. That night, Dean had tucked him under his chin and held him while they waited for the doctors to tell them if their father would survive. It had been the last time he'd allowed Dean to hold him close or maybe the last time Dean had felt the need to do it. It had felt good, though. Maybe...

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“You’re thinking about hugging. So: don’t. This is the most undignified I can stand right now.”

Sam chuckled. “You know – you’re right.”

“What? About hugging?”

“No. I agree, you cannot win this.” He waited, because he was still a little miffed about Dean playing high and mighty – whatever his reasons had been. And he was not above making him anticipate a blow. It was a brother-thing.

“Yeah…”

“ _You_ can’t. But _we_ just might pull it off.” The short glance he got for that was shy – except Dean Winchester didn’t do shy. Must have been a trick of the light.

“You know. That is really sweet. No, I mean it” Dean continued when Sam pulled away, fearing the usual smart-ass response to something emotional. “Thanks, Sam. For… well.”

“Don’t thank me, you ass. I’m still mad and I’m gonna kick your ass from here to Chicago. But right now you should let someone professional take a look at your hand, you idiot. And then… then we’ll go look at some books and lore and stuff and we’ll figure something out. And if we don’t… well. I might be a little diverted once in a while, but I don’t make the same mistakes twice. So you don’t ever sell your soul to anyone ever again. I’m gonna fucking handcuff you to my wrist if I have to.”

“Ooo, kinky.” Dean grinned.

“You have no idea. Now stop sniveling and wallowing. We have work to do.” He stood, which wasn’t easy since they'd been sitting in the same position for some time now and his knees were stiff as planks. “And by the way-” he took Deans elbow and helped him up “Stay off those fansites! They mess with your head.”

They made their way to the Impala and after Sam had dumped Dean on the passenger seat – surprisingly without bitching – he went back to get the gear. Now all they needed to do was find a hospital, evade the doctor’s questions – and Castiel for a while – and don’t get killed. Oh, and stop the Apocalypse.

Piece of cake….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  



End file.
